


Escalations

by thompsonitis



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Yoglabs, there are two of Xephos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thompsonitis/pseuds/thompsonitis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The body is a device made to be used, but not when it is broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escalations

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on my tumblr. Go to my tumblr if you're interested in seeing more of my work. (I usually post a work on Tumblr first.)
> 
> http://thompsonandco.tumblr.com/tagged/my-writing

Bitter, bitter, bitter. It’s the taste on his tongue, metallic and hard to describe, how he imagines blood will taste, how grief and guilt will stain the back of his teeth like the juices of a blackberry. It’s the taste he tastes when there should be nothing there, but it is there, and he can’t tell anyone because he’s not supposed to.

He’s not supposed to feel his lungs expand, not supposed be aware of the sounds of his fingers creaking when he bends them. He shouldn’t be looking in mirrors in dim, dark and empty rooms, alone by himself, except for the him in the mirror, which is himself- how confusing. He shouldn’t be looking into mirrors, into his own eyes and feeling like he should gouge them out for the dim blue glow that he sees when there is no light to hide in. Agitation.

He shouldn’t, he’s not supposed to, he can’t. Repeat mantra.

The sound of whirring and clicking that no one else can hear follows him, and he’s looked for the source for ages before having an epiphany and brutalising his body before going to Brightmeer and telling the man that no, nothing happened, just an accident, and he can taste something bitter again in his mouth when he speaks. He’s okay again soon enough, but he feels that it’s only a matter of time before it recurs and he’s left to break skin and see what comes out for what feels like the hundredth time, even though it’s really not.

He talks and he only hears echoes of his own voice, but no one else seems to notice and he tries to ignore it, but he can’t in the quiet of his head. Tries to anyway, because-

Echoes and digits in his head, metal upon skin, skin upon metal. His veins are blue.

He can’t ignore that. Impossible, unthinkable, except that it is possible, the slimmest of chances, and he can see his finger clench, hear the creaks, feel his nails bite into his flesh. Repeat mantra, ignore observations, the state of denial is pleasant, isn’t it, except it’s absurd in the face of his own self; obvious lies mounted on oblique delusions.

There’s a problem, there’s always one, but this seem bigger than normal, understated and terrifying in way that there are no words for. See, sometimes, when he’s facing certain things, there is a peculiar feeling in his chest, in the pits of his stomach, the base of his spine. He reads out error every time and he crashes and when he wakes he’s been awake all along, going about his usual routine, and then he hopes that when he next sleeps he will never wake up.

He wonders if he holds his breath long enough, will anyone notice? Will he pass out, on the floor, breathe again and wake up alone? What, he wonders, is it like to drown on land.

Temptation of temptations; they taste sweeter than what is in his mouth, but there is nothing there, nothing, and he thinks something is wrong with him because there’s always an explanation.

Focus. Maintain concentration. Impossible- no. Focus.

He watches himself watch himself in the mirror, and feels a sense of dysphoria when he sees own face, because there’s more than one, and it’s almost hard to tell which is which, except when the face is sleeping.


End file.
